


Calm Before the Storm

by FaeryQueen07



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Season 2 spoilers, Season 3 Spoilers, post-Master Plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:43:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaeryQueen07/pseuds/FaeryQueen07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stiles isn’t sure where Derek and Isaac are—or Scott, now that he’s decided he no longer wants to be in Derek’s pack—when he pulls up in front of the Hale house, but they’re not who he’s looking for, not this time. Peter is on the porch by the time Stiles climbs out of his Jeep, the door with its unfamiliar mark shut behind him, and they stare at one another for several long moments.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stiles

**Author's Note:**

> When I originally posted this, I intended for it to be a series, but didn't know if I'd produce anything worth posting. Now that I have a large portion done, I'm marking this as multi-chaptered and a series. From here on out, the chapter titles will signify the character POV. Chapters will receive their own ratings and warnings, so please remember to check there!

Stiles isn’t sure where Derek and Isaac are—or Scott, now that he’s decided he no longer wants to be in Derek’s pack—when he pulls up in front of the Hale house, but they’re not who he’s looking for, not this time. Peter is on the porch by the time Stiles climbs out of his Jeep, the door with its unfamiliar mark shut behind him, and they stare at one another for several long moments. The silence is weighted, prickling at the back of Stiles’ neck and making the air hum with tension. Peter is the one to move first, taking a seat on the second from the top step, and Stiles follows suit, sitting just far enough away not to constitute as crowding, but still within grabbing distance. It’s a show of trust on Stiles’ part.

Peter breaks the silence, his tone wry as he says, “I can’t offer you the bite. I’m not an alpha anymore.”

The words catch Stiles off guard and he glances over to see Peter watching him, face blank, gaze unreadable. He shrugs. “Yeah, well, I didn’t come here for that, believe it or not. I came here to say I’m sorry.”

Silence falls over them again, and Peter’s stare hardens just a little. There’s a hint of cruelty in the tilt of his lips when he replies. “For setting me on fire?” One eyebrow arches high, skeptical.

“Well, that too,” Stiles says. 

His leg bounces and he twitches a little, uncomfortable at the reminder of his part in Peter’s demise. Never mind that it had taken Allison’s arrow to ignite the damn bottle after Peter caught it. The idea had been Stiles’, and he has yet to make peace with those demons. He doubts he ever will, and adds it to the growing list of ways in which he has proven what a terrible human being he is.

He has to fight just to block out the images of Erica and Boyd’s faces in the Argent basement.

“But I meant for losing your family. For you trying so hard to save them and not being able to. I’m sorry some psychotic bitch did that to you, and I really hope that this is for real, you being here and wanting to be a part of Derek’s pack. That you’re not trying to become the alpha again, or secretly plotting his demise. Because I—I get the feeling that Derek could use some family in his life. _Real_ family, since it’s not like he’ll let any of _us_ get close to him. Kate pretty much saw to that when she seduced him just so she could wipe out his entire family.” And though it pains him to say it, he adds, “And Scott betraying him to Gerard, Erica and Boyd running away, Scott _leaving_ Derek’s pack... None of that helped, either. So, yeah, I’m glad you’re back. You know, as long as you’re not gonna go all crazy-wolf and start killing people. Again. Particularly me, because that would really suck and also I don’t want my dad to be alone. Being alone hurts the worst, and I don’t want that for my dad. Or Derek.” He runs out of steam, feeling far more exposed than he’s prepared to.

Peter’s mouth curves up, but there’s no humor in his smile, only sadness, grief. “Yes, it does,” he agrees.

There’s still a question hanging in the air, and Stiles answers it without looking over. “My dad really loved my mom. Like, loved her a lot. He still wears his wedding band and he goes to visit her sometimes between his shifts. He doesn’t know I know, but.” Stiles shrugs. “When he got his job back, I thought that would make things better, but it didn’t. I’m still telling him the same lies and sometimes—sometimes I think he looks at me and it’s like I can hear him thinking, ‘Why her? Why my wife and not this kid who can’t just sit still and listen? Who’s constantly screwing up?’

Stiles doesn’t know why he’s saying this, but now that the words have started, they don’t stop. He’s not sure he wants them to.

“It was my fault Scott was in the woods that night, and it was because of me that my mom got so sick.” He feels Peter tense beside him and plows on. “I mean, I’m not stupid. I didn’t actually _make_ her sick, but I was always running, never stopping, and she just—I wore her out, like I’m wearing my dad out. The only person who was ever able to just _accept_ me was Scott, and I don’t even have him anymore, not really.”

He swallows hard, and closes his eyes. Waits for some confirmation from Peter. It doesn’t come. Instead, Peter says,

“I had a son. He was a couple of years younger than you, but he had your energy, your...vibrancy. He would climb trees, scale the bookshelves, get himself stuck at the top of doorways.” There’s a pregnant pause, then he says, his voice a bare whisper, “He was human.” 

When Stiles turns, he can see the raw grief etched permanently into Peter’s features, but he holds his tongue. It’s easy, this time. 

“I wouldn’t have traded him for anything, even on the worst of days,” Peter says at last.

They lapse into silence after that, staring out at the woods. There’s still the sense that something big is coming, and Stiles hopes they’ll be ready for it. The symbol on the door is part of it. He doesn’t have to ask to know that much, and he thinks maybe they’ll stand a chance if Peter is _with_ them, not against. Stiles isn’t aware of how tense he is until one of Peter’s hands finds his shoulder, fingers tight over one of the many bruises littering Stiles’ skin, hidden away by his shirt and jacket. Without over-analyzing it, Stiles reaches up, wraps his hand around Peter’s and holds on.

The next part of the storm is on the horizon and Stiles needs to be ready to meet it head on. They all do.


	2. Peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When he’s alone again, Peter replays the entire conversation in his head, twists and turns Stiles’ words over in his metaphorical hands to get the shape of them. It’s all right there: every vulnerability, every weakness. The very means of making the boy hurt handed over without a thought as to the predator lurking behind the human façade._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the titles of the chapters are POV-based. These two are short, and while the rest get a little longer, none exceed 1.8K. Most of the series is written, but not in order. Once I'm done with my Marvel Bang fic, I'll be able to focus on this again. Please remember to check the warnings at the beginning of each series segment!

When he’s alone again, Peter replays the entire conversation in his head, twists and turns Stiles’ words over in his metaphorical hands to get the shape of them. It’s all right there: every vulnerability, every weakness. The very means of making the boy hurt handed over without a thought as to the predator lurking behind the human façade. Peter thinks about it, remembers the ripe scent of an easy kill sitting beside him, waiting, and he wonders how many more opportunities like that will arise.

Then his attention shifts to the less obvious parts of Stiles’ demeanor. To the sharp tang of pain, the metallic bite of blood lying too close to the surface of his skin. Not the marks on his face, no, but other places where bruises were taking form. He had felt the heat of damaged flesh beneath his fingers when he touched Stiles’ shoulder and it makes Peter want to shift, want to whine low in his throat at the thought of someone else laying such cold unfeeling hands upon the boy.

With a sigh, Peter stands and dusts off the seat of his pants before continuing down the stairs. He won’t go back into the house, not tonight. There will be time enough to revisit the site of his family’s slaughter, of his burial, but for now, he wants to run on four feet instead of two. He heads for the woods, giving over to instinct for the time being, and lets the heavy thoughts fall away.

***.*.*.***

The next day, Peter decides to take a stroll through town. He’s unassuming enough that no one really pays him much mind. Gazes slide past him, passersby move aside without looking up. No one sees him, and that’s good, perfect. It means he can move freely, so long as he stays out of his nephew’s sight. Peter is halfway to the coffee shop he liked to frequent back before the fire when he hears them: Scott and Stiles. They’re upwind of him, and Peter takes advantage, slowing down just enough to not bring attention to himself, but still remaining within hearing range.

“You’re lucky it was only a couple of guys who jumped you, dude. I swear, next time, like, scream or something.” 

Stiles twitches and bats away Scott’s hand when he reaches out to poke at scabbed over mark on Stiles’ cheek, and Peter’s lip curls up in annoyance. He will never understand the dynamic between these two. Yes, Scott had a moment of brilliance with the pills, but he’s still blind to what’s right in front of him.

“You still haven’t told your dad who it was, have you? The kids from the other team? You could tell me, you know. Next time we play them, just point out who it was and I’ll deal with them.”

Peter can’t see their faces from where he is, but he imagines Stiles is squinting at Scott, trying to determine what Scott means. In the end, there is only a tired sigh.

“Seriously, dude, will you just—it’s not important, okay?”

“Yeah, sure, okay. Oh, hey, I have to bail on coming over tonight. My mom’s still not ready to talk about the whole werewolf thing, but she wants us to, I don’t know, bond? We’re going to visit my grandmother for a few days, but I’ll call you.”

“Oh, sure, whatever.”

There’s something uneasy in Stiles’ tone, something that has Peter’s hackles rising, but Scott remains oblivious. They part ways after that, and for just a moment, Peter considers following Scott. At the last moment, he changes his mind, turning to fall into step a few feet behind Stiles. Twice, he can see the way Stiles starts to turn, like he knows he’s being followed, but then he takes hold of himself. There’s something bitter in the air surrounding him, and Peter has to fight the urge to get close enough to scent him.

Peter isn’t sure why he does it, but when they turn down Stiles’ street, he slips into the shadows cast by the trees, following at a more discreet distance. It’s late enough in the day that there is plenty of shade in the Stilinski backyard to provide adequate cover, and he finds a place out of sight to wait. He drowses for a bit, body still feeling the drain of being resurrected, listening to the sounds of neighboring families coming and going. 

It’s the sound of the sheriff’s cruiser pulling into the drive that rouses him, and Peter climbs to his feet, easing his way closer to the kitchen window. He eavesdrops half-heartedly, having little interest in the subject of dinner. He only tunes back in when the conversation comes to a close, listening to the sounds of Stiles and his dead preparing to go out for their evening meal. Peter waits until the sound of their car is out of hearing range, then he’s climbing up to Stiles’ bedroom window and slipping inside. 

He can smell it in here as well, the acidic scent of defeat. The room is relatively clean, surprising for a boy Stiles’ age, so he has to be careful about what he touches. He isn’t even sure what it is he’s looking for until he opens the closet door and the stench of pain, fear, resignation threaten to overwhelm his senses.

It only takes a moment for Peter’s eyes to adjust to the dark, and when they do, he sees the source. Stiles’ lacrosse uniform is shoved in the corner farthest from the door. Peter drops into a crouch, reaching for the shirt and pulls it to his nose. His lips curl and a snarl forms low in his throat when he finds the underlying smell, the reason for all the other scents clogging the air. The bruises littering soft, pale flesh.

_Gerard_.

Peter is careful as he replaces the uniform, double checks to make certain there are no signs of his trespass. Scott would know, if he came into the room, as would Derek, but the threat of the Alpha Pack has Peter’s nephew too busy for social visits, and Scott’s time with Stiles seems to be spent outdoors if the lack of Scott’s scent is anything by which to judge. There is little question in Peter’s mind as to why; unobservant as Scott can be at times, it would be hard to miss the connection between Stiles’ face and the scent on his jersey. And Stiles, for whatever reason, does not want his friend to know the truth about what happened to him.

Back outside, and on his way to the old underground subway station, Peter’s thoughts go to Stiles and he wonders how long they all have. How long until the fragile pieces of Stiles’ feigned confidence shatters completely. Soon, he thinks, and Peter knows he will have to make a point of being there when it happens, of being the one to put Stiles back together.

He might not be an alpha anymore, but he will have his pack, and Stiles, he thinks, just might be the key to that.


	3. Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _That first month after the big warehouse showdown is every bit the eye of the hurricane. The worst of the storm is over, for now. Gerard, wherever he is, has yet to show his face, for which everyone is grateful. Stiles doesn’t know what exactly happens to Jackson once Dr. Deaton and Derek whisk him off, just knows that on Monday, Jackson’s seat is empty and Danny is a wreck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be spoilers for Season 3 in this chapter, as well as the ones coming up. Everything is limited to what I've heard on Twitter.

That first month after the big warehouse showdown is every bit the eye of the hurricane. The worst of the storm is over, for now. Gerard, wherever he is, has yet to show his face, for which everyone is grateful. Stiles doesn’t know what exactly happens to Jackson once Dr. Deaton and Derek whisk him off, just knows that on Monday, Jackson’s seat is empty and Danny is a wreck. 

Stiles wonders if anyone took that into consideration, that Danny, who has been pulled into their werewolf mess time and time again without every knowing, thinks his best friend is dead. Twice, Stiles almost tells him the truth, but then he thinks about the Argents, about Erica and Boyd, whom no one has mentioned outside their parents, and knows that this is better. Maybe, when the time is right and the danger isn’t quite so eminent, isn’t quite so severe, he can lay all the cards down on the table and come clean. Maybe then Danny will lose the haunted look that clings to him, the shadows that sink deeper and deeper into the skin around his eyes.

After a while, school falls back into the same old routine: detention from Harris, more homework than teachers can honestly justify and shitty food in the cafeteria. The last is solved by Stiles’ new resolve to not only straighten out his dad’s eating habits, but his own as well. He packs a lunch every day, includes each of the major food groups and only indulges in the spectacular, life-altering experience that is curly fries once a week. He pretends not to notice when his dad sneaks a few because for all Stiles knows, they’re going to die the next day and it won’t be clogged arteries that does it. Life goes on. As far as most are concerned, Jackson’s death was a tragedy, one the newly re-appointed sheriff is looking into, but everything else is back the way it should be.

Only the pack, Scott, Melissa, Stiles’ dad and a few others are aware of just how bad things had gotten. But for all that everyone else seems ready to accept the new quiet, Stiles remains ready. He knows—can feel it deep in his bones—that something bigger is still out there, waiting for them to let their guards down. So Stiles keeps his up, even as he laughs and smiles, hiding away as many signs as possible that he’s not okay, because he has to be _ready_. 

Hyper-vigilance. 

Stiles and Scott hang out almost every day, meeting up to practice lacrosse after school lets out and never talk about the empty chairs that Erica and Boyd have left behind. Isaac hangs out with them sometimes, but for the most part, he’s with Derek and Peter, training, or doing whatever it is the three of them do. On the full moon, the night leading into the last day of school, Stiles hangs out by himself because Scott, despite rejecting Derek as his alpha, has agreed to remain locked up with the others.

Summer begins, and it brings with it the hope that now Stiles will be able to forget about Gerard’s words, forget the way he had waited and waited, not letting out that last lungful, not drawing in his last breath and just letting go. Giving up. He had thought of Ms. Morrell’s words, and he had held on. Is _still_ holding on, not that it’s doing him much good. No one had come, though, not like Ms. Morrell had led him to believe, and it takes everything Stiles has not to think about _that_.

Instead, he focuses on his job at the library and learning the system there—he takes advantage when he can, ordering books on mythology and folklore that he thinks might be of use in his daily life—three days a week, and watching Mrs. Roberts’ boys the other four. In truth, he watches the kids whenever she asks, because Mrs. Roberts was a friend of his mother’s, and she’s had a rough year. In the midst of all the werewolf crap going down, Stiles had missed the part where her husband went off overseas to be a hero and came back a memory and a handful of medals that give hugs are kiss away tears. And when he’s not helping her or at the library, he’s with Scott, and for the first time in almost a year, things seem normal.

Then, in the first week of July, Scott doesn’t show up at the school field and once again, Stiles is left waiting, treading time like water. Scott’s been late before; a couple of times caught up in spending time with his mom, or putting in extra hours at the clinic. Stiles totally gets it, he’s managed to squeeze a few extra hours with Dr. Deaton as well, learning what he can about all things mystical. But then it started sliding into Scott running late because he was hanging out with Isaac. Not training, not studying werewolf-y stuff. Just hanging out. And he’d send a message promising to be right there, or to reschedule all together, but he always texted. He never left Stiles waiting indefinitely, not like this. So Stiles waits. He waits and waits and before he knows it, the sky is turning pink and a subtle chill is taking root. It’s almost dinnertime, and he palms his phone from where he left it in his Jeep and shoots Scott a ‘WTF, man?’ text. He gets a response as he’s pulling up in front of his house.

_‘Sry. 4got. C u 2mro?’_

“Fine, asshole,” Stiles says aloud. His text merely reads, ‘New action movie out. We’re seeing the last matinee show.’ 

The next day, Stiles is feeling pretty good. His birthday is in a week and he’ll be seventeen and look. He is totally still alive, even after a year of werewolves, were-lizards, hunters and an ex-alpha _zombie_ werewolf. Points to him. He spies the top of Scott’s head in the incoming crowd and waves maybe a little more enthusiastically than called for, but whatever.

As Scott draws closer, though, Stiles realizes that he’s not alone. Isaac is right beside him, and Stiles feels his smile slipping as he watches them laugh together. But Stiles is a champion at rolling with the punches, and he shakes off the niggling of worry. He tells himself it doesn’t matter when Scott and Isaac spend a large portion of the movie with their heads bent together, whispering, and that afterwards, he doesn’t care that his invitation for Scott to hang out is turned down. Scott, it turns out, already has plans to spend the rest of the day with Isaac at the veterinary clinic. It’s fine, Stiles tells himself later as he unlocks his front door and steps inside.

He repeats it again a week later when Scott shows up late in the afternoon, Isaac once again in tow, to drop off a birthday card.

“Sorry, man,” Scott says, looking a little sheepish. Like forgetting his _best friend’s birthday_ is an embarrassing oversight and not a criminal offense to all friendships everywhere. “Um, hey, I’ve got to get to work, but Isaac’s staying at my house tonight. Maybe you could come over, too? We could play Call of Duty or something.”

Stiles stares at him for a long moment, careful to keep his gaze away from Isaac. He shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll just stay in. Maybe take dinner over to the station to eat with my dad.” 

He doesn’t say, ‘but thanks for the last minute invite _on my birthday_ ,’ not only because that would be rude, but because he gets it. He really does. Isaac doesn’t have anyone else, not really. Sure, he has Derek, but Derek is currently busy not dealing with his crumbling pack, his scheming uncle and whatever else is going on inside that head of his. Scott, well… Scott is Scott, and even though this sucks for Stiles, it’s good for Isaac. But that doesn’t mean he wants to watch them head back to Scott’s car—doesn’t want to watch them _walk away_ from him—so he turns away before they reach the curb. Just as he’s just closing the door, Isaac comes bounding back up the walk, his smile sad. 

“I, um. Here. I forgot to give this to you.” He holds out a card and Stiles takes it with fingers gone slightly numb from how hard he’s been gripping the door. “Happy birthday, Stiles,” Isaac says, and then he’s dashing away again.

Stiles drops the unopened cards on the table and picks up the house phone to call his dad.

“Stiles. Thought you’d be with Scott already.”

“Oh, yeah, maybe later. I was thinking I could pick us up something to eat, come down to the station. I’d be willing to spring for curly fries. Or we could do something else?” He’s going down the list of dinner options when he notices the regret in his dad’s voice as he says,

“I really wish I could, Stiles—”

“No. No, yeah, that’s—I get it. It’s cool. I’ll, um, I’ll leave something in the microwave for you.”

“Are you sure?” 

His dad sounds worried now, so Stiles says, “Dad, really, it’s fine, but no eating any of that crap they like to bring in there. I packed you a salad earlier, so stick to that.” He tries to sound chipper, but thinks maybe he’s missed the mark. He disconnects after his father apologizes one more time with the promise to at least eat the salad and first and a plea for a slice of Stiles’ birthday cake. A cake that currently doesn’t exist. So Stiles bakes himself one, carefully smears on frosting, cuts two slices from it and then puts the rest in the green bin out back, under the pile of grass cuttings.

Stiles spends the rest of the night in his room reading about wolf packs. Not werewolf packs, but _real_ wolf packs, because Google has a plethora of information on those. He tells himself it’s for research purposes only, not because Stiles has been trying to get by on as little sleep as possible. He isn’t ready to admit that every time he closes his eyes, he sees Gerard’s face, feels his breath hot against Stiles’ cheek and his fists hard against all the soft, delicate places on Stiles’ body. Stiles isn’t stupid. He knows he’s going to have to deal with what happened that night at some point because denial only works for so long, but he’s really pushing for later. 

Much, _much_ later.

***.*.*.***

Like all good things, his denial comes to an abrupt end, just three nights later.

Stiles is beat because Mrs. Roberts’ three little boys are exhausting, even on a good day like today. When Stiles had rolled out of bed at 7a.m. to find the sun already shining and a predicted weather forecast of high nineties, he had resigned himself to a day at the pool. Seven hours later, he carried home a zonked out four-year-old, the older two following behind slowly. Twice, Stiles had paused, the sensation of being watched making the hairs at the back of his neck prickle with awareness—he feels it even now, and after dropping his backpack on the ground by his door, he crosses to his bedroom window to peer out. He can’t see anyone though, just like there hadn’t been anyone to see earlier.

Keeping the kids awake after that had been a nightmare, but it was worth it when they went to bed without a fight just before 8p.m., Mrs. Roberts’ helping shepherd her children into bed. Stiles had left her sipping tea, checking twice to make sure there was no one lurking about. He’s pretty sure whoever is out there followed him home, and he thinks he should be more worried, especially now that he knows there’s an Alpha Pack watching their every move. Unfortunately, being as tired as he is, he simply does not have the capacity to think of anything beyond ‘shower,’ and ‘bed.’

He checks his email after he stumbles out of the steam-clogged bathroom, and turns on the fan he hauled down from the attic earlier that morning. Nothing in his inbox looks urgent, so he closes out, then debates over checking in on the game he joined a week ago. It’s tempting, but despite the horrifically early-evening hour, he can’t muster the enthusiasm. Stiles shuts down the computer, drags on a pair of boxers and his dad’s old academy shirt, then faceplants on his bed. He’s so physically and mentally exhausted, he really believes he’ll sleep the whole night through, which means that _of course_ he has his first panic attack in three years that night. 

Stiles wakes up gasping for breath, the sensation of drowning blotting out everything else, and it takes him almost twenty minutes to come back to himself. When he does, his father is holding him, _clutching_ him, white-faced as he begs for Stiles to just _talk_ to him.

“So, hey,” Stiles croaks when his voice finally works. “That was unexpected. And, like, totally a mood killer.”

His dad laughs, the sound rough, shaken and just a little broken around the edges. When he replies, his voice is strained and tinged with sadness. “One day, kiddo, you’re going to tell me what’s going on with you.”

“One day,” Stiles agrees. 

He falls asleep almost as soon as his father slips from the room, and when he dreams, it’s of the hum of electricity, of bruising fists and mantra of how useless he is. Every so often he jolts awake again, has to fight to even out his breathing before it gets completely out of hand. By the time his alarm clock goes off, Stiles feels more dead than alive after a night of miserable sleep, but he counts it as a win that he only had one panic attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are surprisingly slow in coming, given that 90% of this is already written. I do not have a beta for this story, so if you see any huge errors, please let me know _in a separate comment_ as I will delete the comment once the correction is made. I have read through it three times, and if I'm lucky, I'll be able to convince my friend Bru to give it a once-over.


	4. Derek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is currently only self-beta'd, so if you see any glaring errors, put them in a separate comment and I will make the change (and then delete that comment).

It takes the better part of the summer—right up until the last three weeks before school starts—of Isaac dropping the most unsubtle of hints before Derek finally agrees to tell Scott about the Alpha Pack. It goes moderately better than he expected, which is surprising to say the least. Scott arrives, looking less than pleased to be at the Hale house, with Stiles in tow, and for once, he just listens as Derek talks, Peter filling in the occasional gaps. Scott is still young, a far younger sixteen than Derek ever was, but he’s not stupid and he’s lost some of the innocence that clung to him for the better half of the past year. He’s smarter, now, even if he doesn’t always act it. The showdown at the warehouse proved that, and Derek still feels an echo of pain from being rejected so thoroughly.

“A pack. Of Alphas. How is that even possible?” For all that Stiles sounds outraged by the news, his expression is contemplative, like his words are just lines, things he knows he has to say because they’re expected of him. Derek opens his mouth to reply, but Peter steps into his line of vision and shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Stiles. Standing off to the side, awkward and unsure, Isaac watches in silence.

“It shouldn’t. It doesn’t make any sense,” Scott argues. “This is totally—why are you only telling us now if you’ve known _all summer_?”

“Actually,” Stiles says, his gaze locking with Derek’s, “it makes complete sense. If an alpha is the one out of control, there’s only so much a pack can do, right? I mean, wounds inflicted by an alpha heal much slower, so you’d need a pretty big pack to take down one crazy alpha.” He darts a glance at Peter, and though Derek can hear his heartbeat pick up, he doesn’t step back. “We got lucky, even I know that. If the Molotov cocktails had failed, he’d have killed us all, hunters be damned. But a pack of alphas? That’s a lot of power. And if the other werewolves are like their alpha, then that would be even worse. No voice of reason.”

Peter nods. “They are the equivalent of a judge, a jury and an executioner. But that’s not all.” He tilts his head to the side, and Derek can tell Peter is scenting Stiles. Something in him opposes the idea, but he makes no move to intercede. 

“Scott—Scott said that the three spirals represent the three elements of a pack: alpha, beta and omega. Those positions aren’t permanent. A beta can become an omega if their pack is killed or forces them to leave. When an alpha dies, the next in line inherits the power, or if he’s killed, then his successor gains his power, and so on. So the Alpha Pack… they can shift that balance of power, and not just by killing someone.”

“I wasn’t kidding about my offer, Stiles,” Peter says. His tone is silky, just an edge of threat to it that has Derek’s fangs dropping and his claws emerging. Peter glances at him, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a mocking smile. “You don’t like that, do you, Derek?” It might be phrased as a question, but it’s not really one. After a few tense seconds, Peter shifts away and drops his gaze to the ground.

“What offer is he talking about?” Scott demands. Derek has an idea of what it is, and he thinks Scott must as well, because something murderous passes over his features. Isaac takes a step forward, is reaching for Scott’s arm, before he remembers himself, and the look he shoots at Derek is equal parts remorse and rebellion.

Stiles shrugs away the question, appearing unconcerned by the pleading look Scott sends him. “They’re going to test you, aren’t they? They want to see if you’re a good alpha.”

“There’s more to it than that,” is all Derek is willing to say, but it seems to be enough. Scott is frowning, but Stiles looks almost horrified.

“They want to see if we’re a good pack. _Crap_!”

Understanding has Scott’s face going first slack, then angry. “They can’t just come here and start killing people,” he says.

“Dude, they totally can,” Stiles counters. “Not only that, I’m betting they don’t play by the same set of rules we do.”

Scott looks wary as he says, “What do you mean?”

“He means,” Peter interjects, tone flat, “that any— _every_ —one will be fair game. Knowing about us or being one of us makes you a part of the problem in their eyes.” He locks gazes with Stiles. “It makes you, and everyone you love, a target.” His smile is cruel as Stiles goes still and pale.

The meeting, if it can even be called such, ends not long after that with Scott and Stiles heading back to Stiles’ jeep. They don’t talk, not even once they’re in the vehicle, and Derek gets the feeling that things are off between them. He wonders if has to do with the night at the warehouse, when Stiles showed up looking beaten to all hell. 

Inside, Isaac disappears into the upstairs portion of the house while Derek retreats to the kitchen. He’s been working on testing the foundations of the house—all pretty much burned out and not stable enough to rebuild on. He’s contemplated tearing the house down, starting from scratch, but he has a loft now, and this is just shadow, a ghost he only stand to be in for so long. With a sigh, he grabs a water bottle from the stack on the crumbling counter and sinks down to sit on the ground. He can hear Peter in the other room, pacing at first, then heading for the door. Derek deliberately doesn’t wonder where he’s going or what he’s doing.

It’s better that way, if only for Derek.

**. . .**

They arrange to meet just a few days later. Peter arrives an hour after Derek, showing up at the house looking all too pleased with himself. Derek eyes him warily, keeps his distance because that look never means anything good for Derek or anyone else. Isaac is out back doing god knows what now that Derek has called an end to their daily training session, but he appears minutes after Peter and spares them only the briefest of nods. He doesn’t say where he’s going as he heads for the door, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair, but there’s only one place he visits.

Derek tries to ignore the sharp sting of betrayal that comes from watching Isaac head out to meet up with Scott once again. He hasn’t admitted that that’s what he’s been doing, not yet, but Derek can smell the sharp bite of disinfectant, the scent of dogs and cats and Deaton. Most of all, he can smell the clove-grass-sweat-calm of Scott, and it makes his hackles rise and his lips curl. Boyd and Erica are still missing, possibly even dead because his connection to them was still new and tenuous when they ran away. It hurts to think that he’s failed them so badly, that he is once more the reason his pack suffers. He can feel Isaac, though, faint but there. He can feel Peter as well, pulsing black and vicious, twisted up by so many terrible things and most of them Derek’s fault, and it makes Derek shiver away from the bond that connects them as pack.

They’re alone right now, Peter wandering around upstairs while Derek goes through his exercise routine. Both of them are on edge, waiting for the Alpha Pack to make their move, and it’s all Derek can do to distract himself for a few moments each day. He’s doing such a good job of it now that he isn’t aware someone is headed toward the house until suddenly Peter is there, just a hint of his wolf bleeding into his eyes. 

Peter is the first to relax, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a mocking smile. “We aren’t the only ones being abandoned by our pack.”

Derek would ask what he means, but then he catches the scent of their visitor. He growls a little. 

“Stiles,” he says as he yanks open the front door.

Stiles is standing on the other side, one hand raised to knock, eyes wide with surprise. The abrasion on his cheek and the cut on his lip are gone, but there’s still a trace of yellow bruising along the side of his face that Derek eyes with distaste. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t want to know, because that would just make him even more responsible than he already is, but a part of him suspects. When he steps closer, he smell more bruises, hidden by layers of clothing, the scent of blood faded.

“Heeey,” Stiles says at last. “So, um. Alpha Pack. Yeah. I…haven’t found anything more about them in my research. Other than what you said the other day.”

“You wouldn’t. You can’t actually Google everything, least of all something like this.” He sounds like a condescending asshole, but then, Derek pretty much is, so he rolls with it.

“Um, yeah, no, I kind of figured that. I, uh, I asked Allison’s dad.”

Behind him, Peter lets out a low, threatening growl, and Derek watches as Stiles’ gaze flits over to him, takes note of the frown on Stiles’ face. There’s no trace of fear though, which is…odd. When he thinks back to the meeting, he realizes there was no real fear then, either. Annoyance, yes, but not fear.

“I didn’t tell him what I was researching, though I think maybe I should.” Stiles drags his gaze away from Peter and returns it to Derek. “If nothing else, we’d have an ally.”

Just the idea of it has Derek crowding Stiles back against a wall, one hand coming up to fist in Stiles’ shirt as he pins him there. 

“You will stay the hell out of my business. Do not drag that man and his family back into my life.”

“Dude. _Dude_.” Stiles struggles for a moment, but he’s still not afraid, not really. Nervous, yes, but that’s a familiar scent on him. Constant. “Look, it’s not like I want him hanging around either, okay. He’s like, super creepy. Even more than Peter who has _really_ got his ‘I’m watching you’ stare down pat. But this isn’t just about you, Derek. This is about my dad, Scott, Scott’s mom, Isaac, Lydia...even Erica and Boyd, though god only knows where _they_ are. And it’s about you two. Too.” He frowns a little, and Derek rolls his eyes before shoving him once more for show, then backing up.

“We’re looking into it.”

Stiles gets this ‘bitch, please,’ expression that should look wrong on his face, but somehow suits him. “Right. And that’s great. Awesome, even, but seriously, dude? You are, like, in the running for Worst Alpha of the Year. You don’t talk to anyone, you don’t share information, you hide shit like your _dead freaking uncle coming back to life_! You totally do not get to pat me on the head and send me away. If my dad dies because you withheld something important, I will shoot you myself. With a wolfsbane bullet.”

He isn’t lying, and Derek snarls at the threat. In less than a second, he has Stiles up against the wall, shirt twisted in Derek’s fist. Stiles’ face is bright red and the toes of his sneakers are only just barely scraping against the soot-covered floor. Derek feels his canines grow, and he doesn’t need to see his reflection in Stiles’ eyes to know his own are glowing red. And this is it. This is what Derek has waiting for: the sickly sweet stench of fear oozing up through Stiles’ pore and filling the air between them.

“I will rip you apart—”

He jolts a little at the press of Peter’s hand to his shoulder, and Derek shakes his head to clear it. He releases Stiles and steps back, turning his gaze away from where Stiles is kneeling on the floor, wheezing to catch his breath.

“He has a point, and right now, we are weak. If he is the go-between,” Peter whispers, “then we need never speak directly with Argent.”

Derek opens his mouth, the echo of Deaton’s warning ringing through his head. “Fine,” he says, turning around to face Stiles once more. “But the only information you pass along is what I give you, and only with my _strict_ permission. Now get out.”

Stiles stands and huffs, dusting off the seat of his pants. His heart rate is still rabbit-fast, but outwardly he appears calm. After he leaves, Derek returns to doing pull-ups, blatantly ignores the way his uncle is pacing around the room. When the silence becomes a strain he no longer wants to bear, he drops to the ground and meets Peter’s gaze head on.

“What?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.” 

Peter smiles and it makes Derek’s stomach clench with the _wrongness_ of it. He turns away, darting a glance at the door, remembering the air of thoughtfulness that had settled around Peter during Stiles’ visit. He thinks about what he knows of his uncle, what he knows of Stiles, and Derek tells himself he doesn’t care. If Peter acts on whatever ill-will he is harboring, makes Stiles the focus of his unending quest for vengeance, then Derek will step in, but for now, Stiles is just something to hold Peter’s interest.

**. . .**

When the floorboards in the entryway creak, Derek goes completely still. Even from the back of the house, he can hear the sound of Peter’s feet hitting the ground as he leaps off the porch and heads into the woods. He’ll be gone all day, off for his daily fix of stalking Stiles. Derek still hasn’t figured out what the particular draw is there, either. Stiles is entertaining in a distracting sort of way, but only from a distance. Whenever he’s around, Derek gets an itch under his skin, and he has to fight not shift. For some reason, though, Peter has fixated on Stiles.

Derek isn’t as oblivious as he thinks people assume he is, not where it counts. He knows that Peter is plotting something, and every day that passes where Peter doesn’t make his move is just another day where Derek goes to bed, his whole body on high alert. He spends more time tossing and turning, only sleeping in short bursts that do nothing for his mood the next morning than getting any actual rest. He can’t remember the last time he got a full night’s sleep. Not since before the fire, at the very least.

What makes it hardest for Derek to sleep, though, is the knowledge that he’s not doing more to find the missing members of his pack. He should be out there searching for them, tracking them down through the bond, but he isn’t. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he _knows_ the Alpha Pack has them. Going after Erica and Boyd now would be reckless and stupid, and while Derek might not be a very good alpha, he’s no so terrible as to lead what’s left of his fledgling pack into a battle they won’t survive.

When Derek isn’t worrying about that, his thoughts are on Scott, and his twice-fold betrayal. It’s hard, knowing he’s out there and actively avoiding Derek. And it pisses him off that even as Scott refuses to be a part of Derek’s pack, he’s still tangled up in Isaac’s life. Not Jackson’s, but then, Jackson is still keeping himself as separate from everyone else as he can. Derek’s pack is scattered, and the only person who comes to him willingly is Stiles. Stiles, who is absolutely _not_ pack. Stiles, whom Peter has been stalking.

Derek isn’t sure what to think about that. 

On the one hand, Peter’s motives are still unknown and Stiles is human. Despite not being pack, Derek feels a certain obligation to keep him from harm. More than that, if he’s honest with himself. He feels the need, the _desire_ , to keep Stiles safe, and that scares Derek and pisses him off in equal measures. So on the few occasions Stiles stops by, Derek does his best to keep him at arm’s length, to push Stiles as far away as possible, because Derek cannot deal with caring about anyone else right now. He’s already tried that, and it’s left him with a murdered family and a broken pack.

On the other hand, while Peter’s attention is focused on Stiles, it leaves Derek free to just _breathe_ , like he hasn’t been able to for over six years. Derek isn’t sure he deserves this time, but he knows he needs it, desperately. He feels as though he’s flying apart at the seams, torn in a hundred different directions at once, and there’s only so long he keep up his unfazed front. So even though Derek knows Stiles is at risk, Derek can’t help but be glad for his Peter-free hours.

Something is going to have to give, though, and it’s all Derek can do not dwell on that thought.


	5. Stiles

Stiles knows it’s only a matter of time before shit hits the fan. They’ve been floating along in the eye of the storm for weeks now, and sooner or later, everything will go to Hell in a hand basket all over again. The constant worry of ‘when’ hangs over his head; darkens even the sunniest of days and nips at his heels as he heads home each night. On the rare occasions he sees Scott, and by default, Isaac, Stiles can see worry in their eyes as well. Derek is surly all the time, but the calculating glint in Peter’s eyes feels less threatening than it did those first few weeks after his return—though Stiles is at a loss as to what that means. It must be good, though, because the skin at the back of his neck doesn’t prickle anymore, even when he knows Peter is lurking in the shadows across the street, watching Stiles’ every move.

When Stiles first realized Peter was following him around town, he had been more than a little concerned. The idea of being stalked by a predator whose mental stability was uncertain left him anxious, his stomach tied up knots whenever he thought about it for too long. He’s not stupid, even now; werewolves are dangerous, but Peter takes it one step further by being unpredictable. So he focuses on not letting on that he knows Peter is there and going about his business as usual. Waiting out the calm while everyone silently wonders when the Alpha Pack will make their move.

They get the answer to their unspoken question towards the end of July with the arrival of Erica’s leather jacket. 

It’s drenched in blood, all of which Stiles is guessing is hers. Stiles doesn’t have to have a werewolf’s keen sense of smell to know that jacket reeks of the Alpha Pack as well; he can see it in Derek’s blazing red gaze, in the mournful expression on Isaac’s face. It’s only the five of them, Peter standing a little ways off and Scott standing at Isaac’s side. Stiles fidgets, uncomfortable in just how much he stands out, alone. Scott’s attention is focused on Isaac, Derek and Peter’s on the jacket.

Stiles wants to offer to take the jacket to his dad, but there is literally nothing the sheriff’s department can do about this, and Stiles is loathe to put them at risk unless it’s absolutely necessary. Unable to remain quiet, Stiles clears his throat and says,

“We really need to come up with a plan to get them back.”

“No,” Derek says, not looking at him. “The _pack_ needs a plan. Me, Peter and Isaac. You are not pack. I don’t even know why you’re here right now.”

Stiles flinches away at the words, and he can feel Peter’s stare boring into the side of his head, but he ignores it in favor of squaring his shoulders. “You know what, dude? Screw you.”

He dodges the hand Scott shoots out to stop him, stomps his way over to his Jeep and climbs inside. When he drives away, it’s a show of self-control that he doesn’t peel out and send dirt flying into Derek’s face. Stiles’ mother didn’t raise him to be spiteful, and deep down, he gets it. He isn’t pack, and not just because he’s human. He is—or at least _was_ —Scott’s best friend, and Scott has been nothing but a pain in Derek’s ass who also betrayed him twice. Erica and Boyd fled at the first sign of real trouble, Jackson is gone, shunted off to another werewolf pack for reasons only Derek and Peter are privy to… Of everyone, only Isaac has remained, and he spends half his time with Scott. 

That aside, though, Stiles feels a certain amount of obligation to see this fight through. As the son of a sheriff, there is one thing he’s learned to do: look at all the evidence and see where it points. Right now, the evidence points to the Alpha Pack rearranging the order of things in the Beacon Hills pack, if not destroying it completely.

“Fuck,” Stiles says into the silence of his Jeep. 

If the Alpha Pack is as powerful as Derek and Peter are saying, dangerous enough that Chris Argent is contemplating packing Allison up and moving them across the country, then they have a kind of magic that is possibly older than the bestiary Stiles may or may not have copied to his laptop. His initial thought was that they planned to strip Derek of his position of alpha, with or without killing him, and shift it someone else, but it’s only now that Stiles has taken into consideration the big picture. For all that Peter is playing the role of Good Cop, there isn’t a chance in hell the Alpha Pack will let him take over, and Scott, awesome as he is, is still too naïve about a lot of things. No, the Alpha Pack means wipe out the new Hale pack, unless someone manages to out-maneuver them in their own game. Peter’s name flashes through Stiles’ mind again and he shivers.

Stiles pulls up to his house and lets the engine idle for a long moment as he thinks on that. Peter is nothing if not cunning, of that much Stiles is certain. Derek, unfortunately, is not, and he’s so busy watching his pack fall apart around him that he’s not seeing the threat standing right beside him. Peter will let the alphas do the hard work, then, right when it looks like all hope is lost, he will strike in a way that no one is suspecting. Stiles knows he’s not strong enough to stop Peter on his own, can’t kill him or bring him down, but he can undermine him. He can force-feed Peter a generous helping of humanity and maybe, maybe what he said that night might come true. Maybe, if he brings Peter back from whatever edge it is he’s still clinging too, Derek can have his pack, his family, and they can get rid of the alphas together.

Just as Stiles finally turns off the engine, his dad’s cruiser pulls up, and they meet in the driveway. He can feel his dad’s gaze, sharp and searching, and he wonders what he sees, if he can tell that less than half an hour ago, Stiles was staring at evidence that someone he knows has been tortured and is possibly dead. He has to bite his tongue to keep from giving away his thoughts, and beside him, his dad sighs.

“I wish you would trust me, kiddo,” his dad says. He sounds tired and sad, and Stiles aches from the knowledge that he’s the reason his dad sounds that way.

“I do, I just—there’s stuff that’s not really mine to tell?”

His dad nods, opening the front door and waving him in. “I won’t push, not yet, but something’s gotta give soon. You’ve had two panic attacks in the last week. Whatever it is, it’s eating you up, son.” His dad stops him when Stiles goes to move past him into the living room, drawing Stiles into the kind of hug they’ve been missing recently. Not the kind that says oh-my-god-I-thought-you-were-dead, but the kind that say I-love-you-and-I’m-here. It’s just the kind of hug Stiles has needed, and he nearly breaks, can feel a sob hitching in his chest and has to fight it down.

They make dinner together for the first time in what feels like ages, and they eat in the living room with the television on, background noise to the all the things they aren’t saying. They sit side by side, and as it grows late, Stiles can feel the need for sleep creep over him. He doesn’t fight it when he tips over against his dad’s side, and he is barely aware of his plate being removed from his slack hands. He makes no effort to move until his dad nudges him, and when he stands, he sways a little. He’s exhausted from the running commentaries in his head, the guilt eating holes in his stomach and the growing sense that he’s become the third wheel in Scott’s new friendship with Isaac. He feels like he did that first year after his mom died and before Scott moved to Beacon Hills, when Stiles was too weird, too hyperactive, and none of the other kids could tolerate him for longer than it took to pick all the kids standing around him during dodge ball.

His dad’s hands are firm and gentle, guiding him out of the room. Without a word, they make their way upstairs, the dishes from dinner left to soak in the sink. Stiles stops outside his bedroom door, wills down the drowning sensation that is already building inside his chest, but before he can open the door, his dad is tugging on his arm. Stiles goes without a fight, slumps down onto the end of his dad’s bed when he is directed there. His hands are shaking, and when Stiles closes his eyes, he sees Erica’s jacket—heavy with blood and torn. He doesn’t know what happened to her, but he’s got an active imagination. 

When Stiles looks up, his dad is watching him with this sad expression. He hands over one of his old academy shirts, and Stiles changes into, shucking his jeans until he’s standing in his dad’s shirt and his boxers feeling closer to six than sixteen. That doesn’t stop him from climbing under the covers, and he curls up in the spot he used to occupy when he was younger, when his mother’s death was still this gaping wound in both their hearts. It still is, and that thought has him fighting tears once more. If this is what it’s like for them, he can’t even begin to imagine what Peter must feel, having lost a mate and a child.

The bed dips as his dad climbs in, and he turns on one of the small lamps. He’s wearing his reading glasses, and as Stiles watches through sleep-heavy eyes, his dad picks up one of the old romance novels Stiles’ mother used to read. He catches Stiles’ gaze, and the corner of his mouth tilts up, something painfully close to grief tucked away in the lines that appear.

“Go to sleep, kiddo,” his dad says. He doesn’t say, ‘I’ll keep watch,’ but Stiles knows that’s what he is thinking. He’ll stay awake, like maybe if he’s watching, Stiles won’t have another panic attack in the middle of the night—won’t wake up gasping and crying, because his dad is there to chase away all the bad thoughts plaguing his mind. Stiles wants to point out that that is not the way things work, but he doesn’t. He won’t be the one to take this away from his dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-beta'd. If you see anything horrendously wrong, let me know in a comment and I'll try to fix it.


	6. Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I do not currently have a beta, so if there are any glaring mistakes (commas are my kryptonite, yo), drop me a line in a separate comment. Once I've corrected it, I will delete the comment. :)

It takes Peter long than he’d like to admit to realize his plan is backfiring. Spectacularly. His initial idea had been to break Stiles down in subtle, non-permanent ways, then piece him back together so that Stiles would become dependent upon him. Peter is smart enough not to believe he could convince Stiles to trust him, not outright, but manipulation is Peter’s specialty and Stiles... Well, Stiles isn’t exactly a wealth of self-esteem. Even less so now that his “best friend” is spending most of his time with someone else. And it should be amusing, should be _pleasing_ , to watch how Stiles’ lips turn down at the corners when Scott turns to look at Isaac first. He thinks he should find some small amount of joy in the knowledge that everything is unfolding exactly as he had hoped, but it doesn’t. Instead, Peter is left feeling annoyed on Stiles’ behalf, and bereft on his own when yet more broken plans result in Stiles avoiding all werewolves for days on end.

Somehow, the tables have turned, and despite Peter being the one to sow the field, Stiles is the one who looks most likely to reap the benefits.

Peter has half a mind to give up, to choose someone else, but he knows that _this boy_ is the key; no one else will do. So he stays close, follows Stiles from his part-time job at the library to his near full-time job watching the three young boys of single mother across the street. It’s frighteningly easy to watch Stiles chase them around the backyard, or walk them down the block to the small park, and at some point, without knowing when or how, Peter goes from silent observer to silent _protector_. He falls into a routine far more easily than he could have imagined, and for a moment, he forgets everything else.

Then the Alpha Pack makes their first move.

Despite the foolishness of the idea, and despite having a place of his own, Derek continues spend a surprising amount of time in their crumbling family home. Against his better judgment, Peter goes with. Isaac does as well, on the rare occasions he is not at Scott’s house or the clinic. Derek takes a job at the very same garage where the kanima made its second kill, losing himself in grease and oil and metal. When Peter isn’t watching—standing guard—over Stiles, he likes to visit Derek, if only because he knows his presence makes his nephew nervous. He wonders if Derek will ever break and just _ask_ why he’s still there, but he finds it doubtful.

No one is really expecting it, even though they’ve all been waiting for the Alphas to make their move. It’s just a day like any other, and it stays that way right up until Derek and Peter arrive at the burnt-out house to find Stiles standing on the porch, face pale and shaking. Peter can smell his fear the moment he steps out of the car, and it has his hackles up. Stiles doesn’t say anything, just nods toward the house, and it’s not until Peter crosses the threshold and the scent hits him that he wonders why he didn’t notice it sooner. The jacket is lying across the back of a chair, and at first appearance, it looks as though it was simply discarded by a careless hand. But the honey-and-apricot scent of Erica’s conditioner is all but drowned out by the stench of pain, blood and otherness that has Peter’s wolf snarling, just barely restrained.

Derek’s reaction is less than pleasant, his fury sending Stiles storming from the house reeking of anger, sadness and something almost desperate. While it’s obvious Derek’s anger stems from the helplessness he’s feeling in the face of a pack member being hurt and possibly—probably—killed, Peter still feels a twinge of something close to sympathy toward Stiles. Maybe a few weeks ago Peter would have agreed with Derek’s complete dismissal of Stiles being pack, but weeks spent following Stiles around has left Peter feeling drawn to Stiles in way he never anticipated. It’s only because Peter is looking that he’s sees it, the look of regret that flits over Derek’s features before his nephew’s face shuts down once more, and it’s then that Peter realizes that he’s not the only one drawn to Stiles. But unlike Peter, Derek is fighting the desire to care for all he’s worth.

Peter is the one to move first, picking up the jacket with careful hands, carrying it upstairs and out of sight for the time being. Downstairs, Derek and Scott argue about Stiles, and Isaac moves about restlessly torn between his loyalty he feels toward the opposing forces of his best friend and his alpha. Peter wonders what is going through the boy’s head right now. For a while, Erica and Isaac had been closest, their bond strengthened by their familiarity. 

He stays upstairs in the burnt remains of the old guest bedroom until he hears Scott and Isaac leave, and even then, he is slow in leaving his sanctuary. There is a part of him that wants to go find Stiles, to see how he’s is holding up—another part of him that wants to see if he can break his boy down any further just so Peter can offer him disingenuous solace—but he pushes that aside in favor of searching out Derek. In the doorway of the library, Peter pauses to watch as Derek paces the length of the room, stays just out of sight but not invisible until the silence becomes too much to bear.

“Why are you here?” Derek asks at last.

The words are almost plaintive, and it’s tempting to answer Derek honestly, to say, ‘I’m here to steal your pack away from you, with or without your consent,’ but instead he says,

“If you would like some privacy, Derek, just ask. I’m more than glad to take a walk.”

For a long time, Derek just stares, his thoughts locked away behind the cool mask of indifference he’s been wearing since he turned sixteen. The only real change is that now there’s an edge of hardness to his expression, created by the injustice that is life. The air between them feels thin, and Peter takes a step back, hands up in a defensive gesture.

“I’m not the enemy here,” he says, but that’s not exactly true and Derek knows it. With a shrug, Peter backs away, stopping just outside the room. “I’ll just take that walk, shall I?”

He doesn’t return until long after sunset, slipping in through the back just as Isaac arrives, and he hides the soft snick of the door under the pounding of Isaacs steps up the stairs. He basks in the startled look on Derek’s face when he steps into the burned-out kitchen, and inclines his head in greeting to hide his smirk. By some unspoken agreement, they’ve decided to stay at the house, but if Derek thinks that will keep the Alpha Pack from discovering where he lives, then he is sorely mistaken. No one speaks as they settle down for the night, but there is a current of awareness all around them, and it gets sharper with every passing second.

***.*.*.***

Peter rises with the sun the next morning, his neck stiff from sitting in the window all night. He’s exhausted from keeping watch and more than a little annoyed at how uneventful the night was in light of all the recent activity. He wants a target, wants to see the faces of the pack stalking him, but knows they won’t give themselves away until they are ready. This is a waiting game, a test to see how well Derek and his pack hold up under pressure. In truth, they failed even before the Alpha Pack arrived in Beacon Hills.

After he stretches, he heads out the back, this time with Erica’s jacket in his hands. It’s tempting, overwhelmingly so, to take it over to Stiles’ house, to slip it into his closet or even into his _bed_ , just to smell the sharp spike of hurt and helplessness he knows will follow. Later, when he reflects back on this moment, Peter will feel ashamed at how easily he caved to that desire, but for now, he simply lets his feet lead the way, sticking to the shadows of the trees. He’s close, a block away from the Stilinski house, when he smells something other, and he changes course without thought, moving so he is downwind of the wolf staking out Peter’s territory.

The werewolf is young, caught somewhere between eighteen and twenty-two as only werewolves can be, and he stinks of alpha power as he hides behind the thick-trunked tree. Peter ducks back further, creeps up silent and slow. As he watches the werewolf watch Stiles playing with the neighbor’s children, something dark and ugly slides up his spine, through his veins. He finds he hates the way the other wolf tenses every time Stiles’ laughs, hates the cloying scent of eager _want_ that promises both pleasure and pain. The alpha in front of him would play with Stiles, string him along and make him feel wanted, probably desired, then rip him to shreds and leave him broken—dead—on Derek’s doorstep as a reminder of just how fragile humans are. Peter knows this; it is no different than any of the thoughts he’s had himself, back when he was hunting Kate and all the people who helped her destroy Peter’s life.

Peter isn’t aware of moving, but in the next moment he’s closed the distance between he and the strange alpha and stupid as it is, _dangerous_ as it is, he’s throwing himself against the other werewolf’s back, fangs and teeth extended. He isn’t an alpha, not anymore, and Peter isn’t particularly fast as a beta, but he is _feral_ with rage, and he all but guts the other wolf before it has a chance to retaliate. Three claws to the throat have him stumbling back, and he wavers, fear chasing the edges of darkness circling his consciousness. He falls to his knees, blinking through the pain trying to blind him, and watches as the other wolf flees, a bloody trail all that is left behind. 

Every breath hurts, and Peter wonders if this is how it’s going to end for him, bleeding out in the bushes after being burned to death twice and Stiles just twenty feet away, oblivious to what is happening. The sound of his own heartbeat is loud in his ears, pounding out the last moments of his life. Everything feels heavy and cold and foggy and he thinks, at first, that he’s imagining the burning warmth of hands on his face, shoulders.

“Jesus, what the hell—”

It is the shock of Stiles’ voice that has Peter jolting back into awareness, the haze of pain and probable death pushed back. He opens his mouth to speak and chokes on blood, and from above him, Stiles sobs out an unhappy laugh.

“Don’t—don’t speak. Jesus, who did this to you?” Stiles fingers skitter over Peter’s neck, holding the flaps of skin in place. 

He’s muttering under his breath, whispering words in a half-song that ring familiar through Peter’s skull. They echo through his veins and Peter can feel the exact moment his blood stops pulsing out of him, is lulled by the soft flow of it as the wound on his neck starts to heal too fast for it to be just his own body at work. He stays there on the ground, unmoving as Stiles pushes warm earth magic into his skin, and he starts to drift off when he feels something wet hit his face. He can smell the salt and he opens his eyes to stare up into Stiles’ tear-streaked face.

“If this was your grand plan for catching me off-guard and, like, manipulating me, I swear to god, I will encircle you with mountain ash and leave you here.”

Peter sucks in a breath, thankful when he doesn’t immediately feel like he is drowning in his own blood, and sighs out an indistinct, “Would you?” The words feel twisted up on his tongue, and it is clear by Stiles’ expression, that Peter was not understood. He closes his eyes, breathes out, and says, “I promise you that damaging myself is in no way part of any plan.” When he meets Stiles gaze once more, he finds a smile there, though it still carries the weight of sadness in the corners.

“Of course it’s not,” Stiles huffs, but there is still a hint of worry in his voice. “So then what the hell happened, man, because one minute I’m playing tag, and the next, it sounded like two wild dogs were tearing each other up? Which…” As he talks, Stiles guides Peter up by the shoulders until he’s sitting upright.

“One of the alphas was watching you.” He pauses, and another thought occurs to him. “The children?”

“I sent them inside. Their mom is home, I was just giving her a break. I told them I’d make sure no dogs were dead or dying and then I’d see them tomorrow with a full report.” Stiles stands and pulls Peter up with him. He grimaces at all the blood matting the grass and beginning to crust under his fingernails. “I’ll tell them I took the dog to Deaton’s, though I’ll have to give him a heads up as well.” His gaze is steady, disconcerting, and before he can voice the question on the tip of his tongue, Peter says,

“I will be fine.” He fingers the curve of his throat, where the skin is sticky with blood but whole thanks to Stiles. “You’ve been learning.” He slants a sharp look at Stiles and is taken aback by how pleased he feels at Stiles’ startled appearance. Something shifts in his head, a memory long thought lost resurfacing in bits and pieces. He frowns, focuses on it, and lets out a soft, surprised breath. “Your mother—she had a way with plants and animals. A… gift.” Peter has no idea why he’s only just now remembering, and it’s almost more shocking—and painful—to realize just how much he missed while in a coma. “She passed away. I’m sorry.” 

It’s not the first time the subject has come up, but it’s the first time Peter has associated faceless woman behind Stiles’ constant grief with the bright, laughing woman who would drive out to Peter’s sister-in-law’s house to collect whatever random woodland creature had been found hurt. Deaton had not yet opened his practice, was still solely serving the Hales in a non-veterinarian capacity, and it never occurred to them to ask old Dr. Richards.

Like that, Peter is swamped with shame and guilt. The faded image of a young woman with auburn hair, warm brown eyes and a never ending smile sharpens into clarity, becomes distinct and overwhelming, and Peter has to brace himself for the assault of memories. He remembers the teasing tilt of her mouth when she spoke, the affection in her eyes upon meeting Peter’s son and the cool press of her chapped lips against Peter’s cheek during his one visit to see her after the initial diagnosis. The smell of death and the sterile hallways of the hospital rises up and Peter lets out a low, aching groan.

“Hey, whoa, dude. You’re, like—you’re too big for me to carry man. Snap the fuck out of it.”

The curse is out of character it has Peter returning to himself with a visible shake. This time, when he looks at Stiles, it isn’t a target or a tool he sees, but a likeness of his own son. He understands then the reason he made no move to harm Stiles despite the opportunities. He gets it, why a small part of him was almost hurt and when Stiles refused the bite. There is so much strength in him, so much _character_ , and Peter—Peter wants nothing more than to make this bright, intelligent, fiercely loyal boy _his_. A surrogate child that will never replace David, but could ease the constant ache in Peter’s heart.

“I need to go,” Peter says, stumbling back. His body is still trying to make up for the blood lost and he feels a little dizzy as he moves back, but he cannot stay there, not if he wishes to remain in control of his actions.

“Look, dude, my Jeep is right there. Let me drive you back to the house.” Stiles bends, picks up Erica’s jacket with steady hands and folds the worst of the blood in so it won’t rub off on his clothes. Peter looks away, unhappy with the reminder of what he intended to do less than twenty minutes prior, and focuses on Stiles’ words.

Peter shakes his head. “Not there. Not now. I need to… regroup.”

“Yeah, I can get that. I’ll drive you, though, because even if you are a creepy stalker, you’re a creepy stalker who probably saved my life, so.” He tips his head to the side, cautious but stubborn. He won’t take no for an answer.

Peter submits because he knows he won’t be able to walk the whole way, not covered in blood and still healing. In the Jeep, he tips his head back against the seat and closes his eyes, waiting until the car is moving before breaking the silence.

“I remember your mother. I don’t know how I managed to forget her. Or you, for that matter, though you were very young the first time we met.” He can sense Stiles’ tension, and he pushes on. “She was lovely. You remind me of her quite a bit.” He smiles at the pleased noise that earns him, then rattles off his address before lapsing into silence once more. He must doze off because the next thing he knows, the car is stopped and Stiles is tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, off-beat and distracting enough to have Peter reaching out to cover Stiles’ fingers with his own.

“It’s not what I would have pictured,” Stiles says at last.

Peter doesn’t fault him for his dubious tone. Before the fire, Peter had been motorcycles and leather jackets; a far cry from the cottage-like house standing before them. He liked being the cool uncle, the rebel, but here… here he was a father and a husband, the latter in name only, as far as the state was concerned. He had been surprised, the first time he returned, to find the cottage had not been sold during his coma and his belongings were more or less secure. He hadn’t gone inside then, had instead headed out of town to a store where no one knew him and bought clothes the Peter Hale of six years ago would never have worn. 

In the first few months after his awakening, Peter visited at least once a week but refused to step inside. Just the thought of his home left him feeling raw with hurt, and back then, he had needed his rage to keep him going. After that, it was just easier to stay outside, removed from all the physical reminders of what he will never have again. He doubts it is a smart move on his part to break this habit now, but more than anything, he wants to wrap himself up in Mark and David and forget about everything else for a little while.

Stiles doesn’t follow as Peter climbs out of the Jeep, but he does not pull away either, just sits with his engine idling, waiting for god knows what. Peter ignores him, stumbles up the walk and shoves his key into the lock, shoving until spills over the threshold. Every breath hurts as he moves through the living room to the mantel, his fingers shaking as he picks up the frames, one after the other.

The pictures of David as a baby, of Peter and his mate, Mark and a of David’s birthmother, Sarah, are coated in dust, relics of a life he no longer lives. Some he will pack away, when the idea of putting his family in a box doesn’t make his gut twist up and clench, but for now, he gives into his need to see and touch. He traces the faces protected by glass and pretends he doesn’t notice the splotches that appear in the dust.

“I miss you every day,” he whispers, voice cracking. He can feel the burn of his tears down his cheeks, but he doesn’t wipe them away. There are no witnesses, and even if there were, he would never deny his family the grief they deserve.

In the bedroom, he strips off the previous days clothes and stands under the shower, skin going from pink to pale again as it heals beneath the scalding water. He uses Mark’s shampoo, the scent all but faded and lost after six years, and when he’s done, it is a pair of Mark’s worn pajama pants and faded T-shirt he dons. In the bedroom, he stands beside the bed lost in thought, and startles when at the sound of a throat clearing. When he turns, it is to find Stiles watching him, his expression one of sympathy and shared grief.

“I, uh. I was headed home, but then I got kinda worried because you never closed the front door. So, yeah. And then, when I saw how everything looked—” _Like a mausoleum_ , he doesn’t say, “I figured maybe you shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“I wanted to hurt you,” Peter says by way of reply. He catches Stiles’ flinch and bares his teeth, a mockery of a smile. “Possibly, _probably_ , I would have killed you, but I wanted to strip bare every emotion you have managed to hold in that fragile body of yours. I wanted to make you suffer, the invisible and unknown force behind all your woes, and then swoop in to fix you up.”

The corner of Stiles’ mouth twitches down and his eyes go dark with sadness. “I can’t be your family, but if—if you’re part of Derek’s pack, then I can be a part of your pack, too.”

“Not Scott’s, though?”

The question startles a laugh out of Stiles. “His too, but he’s not alpha material. Not just yet. He will be, but he needs to stop being a giant dick about communicating with Derek. Or just people in general whose names don’t rhyme with Ballison.” 

Peter nods, quirks a small smile that disappears as his gaze drifts back to the bed. He wants nothing more than to sleep, but he can’t do that in here just yet, cannot face the empty pillow where Mark’s head once lay. Without meeting Stiles’ worried eyes, Peter shuffles past him, caught in an internal debate between the last two places he can lie down. Instead of heading for the couch in the living room, Peter retreats to David’s room, crawls between the Batman and Robin sheets and lies there staring at the childish drawings pinned to the wall.

Behind him, the bed dips, and something tight and hurt unfurls in Peter’s chest as Stiles settles down on the too-small bed, his back pressed to Peter’s. As they lie there in silence, an uneasy truce takes hold, slips beneath Peter’s skin and reaches out to link with Stiles. He should move away, should chase out of the house with gnashing teeth the comfort Stiles offers so willingly. Instead, Peter lets sleep wrap itself around him, and for the first time since he woke in the hospital, skin searing and his mind blank of all the familial bonds he once took for granted, he does not question what the future holds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself, back when I first started this, that I would have the whole thing done before Season 3 began. Most of the parts are finished, though there are a few anomalies (like Jackson no longer being on the show *sob*). The next part in the series will have a higher rating, but fair warning now: the higher ratings will be for violence, not sex. :( 
> 
> As a side note: I will probably not be including anything that unfolds in Season 3, so the warning for spoilers goes only as far as what has been revealed thus far by Jeff Davis and the stars. Even then, I will most likely not add any of Hale family members bc I just don't have the time to dedicate to that kind of research. So consider this AU after the Season 2 finale!

**Author's Note:**

> I like the idea of Peter being a somewhat sympathetic character, but I don’t actually ship him with anyone. He said it himself: he’s a burned out husk. He’s not looking to replace the people he lost in the fire, I don’t think. But of everyone, I think he’d be most inclined to bond, platonically, with Stiles.


End file.
